The Trial of Quincey Harker
by GreyWing of Rockville
Summary: Bookcentered. The strange tale of Mina and Jonathan's son Quincey and his friend Sam, when they travel to New Orleans, where a strange power has been drawing Quincey. Rated T for the future, possible homosexual references, but nothing graphic. R & R!


**A/N:** Well, despite my first beliefs, my first fanfic will not be HP. Go figure. Despite the category of "Movie," this is actually based off the book, because the book is God and no movie ever made was ever as great! Except for maybe Francis Ford Coppola's… That movie was sexy. Anyway… I was skimming through some of the Dracula fanfiction here and found none of it terribly impressive; largely OOC, following little if nothing from the book, lackluster grammar and spelling, and just plain weird speech. People from the 19th century don't say, "Yeah," God darn you all! Someone is going to bite my head off for being too critical, but I absolutely adore the book and I find it terrible that people will write fanfiction off it without ever having read it.

**Title:** The Trial of Quincey Harker

**by:** GreyWing of Rockville

**Disclaimer:** Sadly, the only things Dracula-related that I own are a DVD and two editions of the book. I own no rights to any of it.

**Note:** I'm a geeky, obsessive loser with too much free time. Some of the stuff mentioned is either heavily researched or taken from the footnotes of the magnificent Leonard Wolf, who is a lovely chap who spent a great deal of his time annotating Dracula for the special edition, The Essential Dracula. I've read the story three times in the past year and seen each of the three major movie productions at least once, and let me tell you, the original with Bela Lugosi was rather a disappointment. Anyway, I'll shut up now. Or not: I tried to write this in the original journal style of the book, since that's such a fascinating style, and I've never written something subjectively.

* * *

**Prologue** – excerpt from Bram Stoker's Dracula, Chapter 27 

_Seven years ago we all went through the flames; and the happiness of some of us since then is, we think, well worth the pain we endured. It is an added joy to Mina and to me that our boy's birthday is the same day as that on which Quincey Morris died. His mother holds, I know, the secret belief that some of our brave friend's spirit has passed into him. His bundle of names links all our little band of men together; but we call him Quincey. _

_In the summer of this year we made a journey to Transylvania, and went over the old ground which was, and is, to us so full of vivid and terrible memories. It was almost impossible to believe that the things which we had seen with our own eyes and heard with our own ears were living truths. Every trace of all that had been was blotted out. The castle stood as before, reared high above a waste of desolation. _

_When we got home we were talking of the old time–which we could all look back on without despair, for Godalming and Seward are both happily married. I took the papers from the safe where they had been ever since our return so long ago. We were struck with the fact, that in all the mass of material of which the record is composed, there is hardly one authentic document; nothing but a mass of typewriting, except the later notebooks of Mina and Seward and myself, and Van Helsing's memorandum. We could hardly ask any one, even did we wish to, to accept these as proofs of so wild a story. Van Helsing summed it all up as he said, with our boy on his knee: –_

_"We want no proofs; we ask none to believe us! This boy will some day know what a brave and gallant woman his mother is. Already he knows her sweetness and loving care; later on he will understand how some men so loved her, that they did dare much for her sake."_

–_Jonathan Harker_

* * *

LETTER, QUINCEY HARKER, ESQ., NEW YORK CITY, UNITED STATES TO WILHELMINA HARKER, EXETER, ENGLAND; 2 FEBRUARY 1933

"My dear mother,

"Word from Europe has just reached me; I hear news of Hitler's election to chancellorship in Germany. Mark my words, nothing good will come of this. It seems of little consequence now, especially since I am an ocean away, and any word of the goings-on in Europe is spoken lightly. But I won't argue politics just yet; maybe these fears are false. I pray to God that they are.

"Business has been slow, but that is to be expected. It will take time for the country to recover from the crash four years ago. I've done well enough, however, and since nothing urgent presses me at the moment, I am taking a holiday. My partner, Sam, and I are going to do a bit of touring. We'll take a train a bit out west, to the Mississippi, and take a boat down the river to New Orleans and be there for Mardi Gras. I know you wouldn't approve, since there's nothing but trouble in the Big Easy, but I promise I won't get into any of that trouble. I can't speak for Sam, but I swear I'll keep him from the whiskey this time. I'll mail you something nice, if I can find something worth considering 'nice'.

"After Mardi Gras we'll take a ship out to Tampa Bay, stay for a bit, and then catch a train back up to New York. I'll write when we return.

"Tell Father I send my love, I know how busy he gets, and I hope he is doing better business than Sam and I.

"Quincey."

QUINCEY HARKER'S DIARY

_4 February_ – Sam and I left Grand Central well before dawn. Sam slept for the nearly three hours it took to get to Philadelphia. Our train to Pittsburgh departed about forty minutes later, and was a six hour journey. Sam slept again. I find it amazing that he made it through Harvard as lazy as he is; I've never met a man who slept half as much. He said it was because we were awake so early. I told him it was his own fault he was arguing with the neighbors until 11 o'clock. I'll bet they're glad we'll be gone for a while.

The train to Springfield leaves at 4:08, so I write this while Sam is getting us a quick lunch. Assuming all goes well, we should arrive at the Springfield station no later than 3 o'clock in the morning. From there Sam says we will have to get a bus to Quincy, Illinois, on the Mississippi. He was complaining about the length of the trip. He asked why we couldn't have taken a route straight to New Orleans. I think he misses the point.

I haven't told him why I really wanted to go to New Orleans; Mardi Gras was a convenient excuse. There's something... Pulling me to the south. It's that strange, quiet voice I've heard since I was a little child. I never mentioned it to Mother; it would worry her so. I told Dr. Seward, though. Dear old Jack! I always trusted him the most; he's so very strange, but his work makes him very understanding. The doctor had something of a fit, and asked which of his lunatics I'd been speaking to. I hadn't spoken to any, ever, and I was quite confused. I don't think Jack ever told anyone, not even Arthur. But he always worried afterwards, more than I cared for.

I distinctly remember, especially in my dreams recently, that old house by Jack's asylum called Carfax. I'd wander off to play there sometimes and scare the living daylights out of my parents. Once they figured out where I was going to, they kept me shut up in our apartment whenever we'd go to visit Jack. I never did understand what was wrong with the place, despite it being horribly dusty and probably infested with rats, although I never saw one, that's just what they told me.

Here comes Sam... Oh no, he has hot dogs again...

SAMUEL CARSON'S DIARY

_4 February_ – Written on the train to Springfield. Quincey is finally sleeping. It should do him some good; he hasn't looked too good of late. Poor fellow hasn't had a decent night's sleep in such a long time. He's been having nightmares, or so he says. He talks in his sleep, but I haven't told him that. I do wish he would tell me what the matter is. He's always been quiet, ever since I first met him, but I would think that he would at least open up to me every now and then. It worries me, to tell the truth. His mother mentioned in passing once that Quincey has these bad turns every few years: poor sleep, no appetite, reclusive... He starts sulking and he gets moody during the day and is restless all night.

He sleeps well now. But, boy, does he look bad. He's so pale and thin. Maybe a couple weeks in the sunshine and warm air will do him some good.

_5 February_ – We arrived in Springfield at five to three. The station was a ghost town. We got directions to the bus depot, and set off at a slow pace. There isn't much in this town, and I can't figure out why Chicago isn't the capital.

There was a small 24-hour diner at the depot, and that is where Quincey and I now sit. All he ordered was a cup of coffee.

The waitress came by earlier to try and make small talk; apparently she has nothing to do at three in the morning... I'm sure everybody else has _sleeping_ to do! She was very kind and all, but nosy. "Where are you boys going to? You certainly aren't from anywhere 'round here."

Quincey ignored her and kept staring at his coffee, so I answered. "To Quincy, to get a boat down the Mississippi. We're goin' to Mardi Gras." Quincey suddenly looked up at the waitress, wide-eyed and seemingly in shock. He glanced at me then went back to having a staring match with his coffee. "You'll have to pardon him, miss, he has... Well, I don't know what he's got, but he's got somethin'."

She laughed coyly. It was such a fake laugh. 'Go away,' I willed, 'before he strangles you.'

"Oh that's quite all right, honey—" Quincey twitched and shot a murderous glare at her. "—we get all kinds in here in the middle of the night. Well, I hope y'all have fun in New Orleans!" She strutted away.

"You're staring at her," Quincey growled.

I tried to look innocent; I hadn't realized I was staring. "What?"

He continued to stare daggers at me. After a moment's awkward silence he said, "I don't like this place. These people are too... _Friendly_."

"Now see here, Quincey! Ever since you woke up and got off that train you've been nothin' but rude! What's come over you?" I spoke as quietly as possible; there weren't enough people in the diner to cover up a raised voice.

His glare seemed to evaporate and he started chewing on his bottom lip. "Oh, Sam, I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong. It's just..." He trailed off for a moment, looking curiously at the counter, then continued quietly, so that I had to lean forward to hear him, "I don't like you watching other people, Sam." He looked so lost and confused I couldn't even try to be angry with him.

I smiled and replied, "Well you've no need to get all riled and jealous over somethin' like _her_. She seems to be an idiot." I laughed to try and lighten the mood a little more. "Besides, she's probably being so nice to try and get more tips. Workin' the graveyard shift like this can't bring in too much money, even in a hoppin' town like this." That worked. Quincey covered his face with his arm, trying to stifle a laugh.

As he looked up again he said, "And they say Americans don't know sarcasm."

"Who's they?"

Further discussion was interrupted by the return of the waitress. "Anything else for you?"

"Yes... I'll have... Well, I'll just have a bagel, and peach preserves if you have any!" Quincey said brightly.

"I'm sorry, honey, but we don't have any fancy stuff like that here. We have strawberry jam, or apple butter."

"Apple butter?" He looked thoroughly confused.

"The apple butter," I answered for him. "Trust me, it's delicious."

I finish this entry off as the sun is rising, and as Quincey eats the apple butter straight out of the bowl. Sometimes his eating habits disgust me.

* * *

Sorry that was so boring! It'll get better. I didn't want to keep going, because the last time I did that, I ended up with nine pages and one insanely long chapter. Oh, and, Sam is mine! My Sammy! And to clear something up: Quincey is a character, Quincy – with no 'e' – is an Illinois town on the Mississippi. 

And I'm not sure if I'll go this direction, but I hint at Quincey and Sam being gay. Quincey can't really be OOC because his character is mentioned on, like, only one page out of the entire book, so that's why I chose him. I wanted to tell his story. And if anyone wonders, they are in America, and Sam's American. I make fun of my fellow countrymen! Yay for laziness and poor grammar! Yay America! .:waves flag:. Except I don't really like my country. TT

The Hitler reference: researched on, like, five different sites. He was nominated chancellor on January 30, 1933, and the Reichstag burns February 27, 1933, and will be mentioned whenever I get to that point. Lundi Gras is the 27 of February and Mardi Gras is the 28. We'll get there eventually, I'm making this up as we go.


End file.
